Grey
by The Taloned Merlin
Summary: Alphonse muses on his hatred for his new home. Non-slash.


Disclaimer: I do not own FMA.

Grey

A flower-girl went about her work in a street corner, and Alphonse watched her with unfocused eyes. The sky was overcast, the way it always seemed to be here, and threatened to burst into thick rain. People huddled in their coats and flyers fluttered about with the wind, sticking themselves onto damp grey walls and gathering on the grimy pavement.

The girl was bending over a bucket of pouting roses, arranging them as prettily as she could; her hair swung over her startlingly thin shoulders, and Alphonse could make out yellow stains on her worn dress. As if sensing his gaze on her, she lifted her eyes and almost immediately found him, lurking by a cracked window opposite the road. Her gaze did not deter him, though she looked at him questioningly for a few moments. When he showed no signs of turning away, she hastily went back to her work, a crease lining her brow.

Alphonse blinked once, and then began to advance towards her, not missing the way she stiffened and bit her lip. When he reached her stall, she could only, out of politeness, meet his eyes, and ask, "Would you like some, Sir?"

He pursed his lips and said, "I'm not 'Sir'."

There was a silence, during which they only looked at each other. The girl was growing fidgety, her breath hitching; she was anxious.

Suddenly, with a start, Alphonse reached into his trouser-pocket and pulled out his wallet. Taking out precious, hard-earned notes that he usually saved for extra food or other supplies for winter, he pressed them into her brittle hand and said, "Take it. Just take it." She stared at him, open-mouthed, as he turned round resolutely and marched away, tucking away his purse. It was only after he was out of ear-shot that she spoke softly, "Sir?"

Alphonse did not look back. His brows were knitted, lips twisted as if he had tasted something bitter. His brother would yell at him if he told him what he had done, though he'd probably find out anyway, considering they now wouldn't have enough money to buy sufficient food for the next week. Edward had only recently acquired a job as an aeronautical engineer at a workshop not far from their small flat, and while the work required considerable skill and knowledge, it did not pay very well, especially not to new workers. Alphonse was yet unemployed; he had been put into a school, and he hoped to study medicine later on – but as of now, he earned nothing.

As he turned a corner, smoke was blown in his face by someone with a cheap cigarette between his lips, and he coughed loudly, placing a fist over his mouth and walking more quickly so as to get away from the pollution. This was another thing he couldn't stand about this place – the way the factories belched great shrouds of smoke, the way the air was never quite clean, the way he would fall ill so easily. Edward said he would get used to it, but Alphonse was more delicate than his brother, thanks to the way his body had been preserved at the Gate for four years. Resembool had been irritating when it came to sanitary conditions; Germany was intolerable.

Rubbing his throat, he mourned the fact that, though he had been here for some two years, he was still uncomfortable. Edward had blended in, almost become a part of the regular crowd. Alphonse had not. He despised it here. He despised the fumes in the air, the edgy, angry people, the poverty, the sheer, sorry ideas about Jews and pretty much any race save the Aryans.

Oh, the ideas. They were beyond ridiculous. They were preposterous. Almost ludicrous in their lack of logic and reasoning. The first time he had encountered such barbarity was only a couple of days after he had arrived from Central. Edward had not yet told him about the situation in Germany. Alphonse had been walking around alone, restless, had gotten lost, and stopped to ask directions from a mild-looking gentleman with a fringe of silver hair around his head. He was just about to thank him when a man walking by looked at them briefly, fixing his gaze on the stranger, and, to Alphonse's shock, spat at their feet.

"What – what's wrong with you?" Alphonse had said in a high-pitched voice. "Have you no sense?"

"More than you," the man had replied sullenly, glaring at him. "You're foreign, right? Pah!" He spat again and went on his way, muttering to himself. Alphonse could only stare after him, agape. He then turned to the other and said, "What was that all about?"

The man had looked at him closely, sighing. "He thinks he has a right to do that to us. More specifically, me."

"Why on earth – ?"

"I'm a Jew. And a foreign one at that." He smiled bitterly. "Oh, but no worries. They'll kick us out of this place soon enough."

And Alphonse had stormed into the small apartment he shared with his brother (this was previously owned by Alfons Heiderich), angrily shutting the door behind him. Edward gaped at him, his hair shorn about his shoulders; he'd been in the middle of combing it. "Why didn't you tell me?" Alphonse said in a tight voice. "What kind of world is this? If the citizens are this stupid, how bad is the government?"

Edward had replied, immediately understanding what had probably happened, "The people get the government they deserve, and vice versa. It's a vicious cycle." He set down his comb and sighed, rubbing the space between his brows. "I'm sorry, Al. This place grates on my nerves as much as on yours. But this is our home now, and we have to make the most of it."

Now, Alphonse coughed again, and fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief. He hoped he wasn't coming down with something, he thought anxiously. Vaguely, as he hacked, he wondered if he could ever really get used to this world. As if in reply to his musings, a pair of fair-haired Germans with tobacco in their fingers hollered coarse insults at a Jewish-looking woman who was walking on the other side of the street, tugging her shawl about her head in embarrassment.

Alphonse smiled grimly, then winced as his chest squeezed.

When he reached home he sat at the desk in his and Edward's shared room, and took out the homework he had been assigned by his teachers, and worked for the next couple of hours, not once raising his eyes from the pages. Eventually he heard the bedroom door open, and then the sound of his brother's familiar footsteps.

"Al?"

He made no reply, scribbling away; a lock of hair fell into his eyes, but he did not push it aside. Suddenly, he felt arms wrap round him, and Edward's cheek, cold from the evening winds, press against his. They stayed like that for a while, two boys in a little room. "Al. I'm sorry."

Alphonse closed his eyes and let his head drop onto the table in weariness. Edward straightened, his arms falling to his sides. He attempted a cheerful tone: "Would you like to have dinner out tonight? There's a nice, cheap place some twenty minutes away."

"No thanks," said the other quietly. "I'll fix us food at home. I mean, you can eat out if you like, but I'm not up to it."

Edward returned, "Nah, it's no fun eating alone. I'd rather have our cooking than that. Usually." Alphonse could hear the smile in his brother's voice, but did not return it.

"You feeling okay? You look..." Edward searched for words. "Grim."

"I'm fine. I'll just finish this work and get started on the food."

"You sure? I can cook, if you want," he offered with rare generosity.

"No, it's okay. You get some rest."

"All right, Al." Edward threw one last, worried glance at his brother, and left, presumably to crash onto the sofa with a cup of tea. Alphonse threw down his pen, giving a silent groan.

After they had eaten, he worked into the night, not stopping till his eyes were raw and the birds began to sing.

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